


Igniting a Storm

by MueraRashaye



Series: Friends Across Borders [7]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Bromance, Firestarting, Friendship across borders, Gen, Gift Development, Headcanon, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MueraRashaye/pseuds/MueraRashaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When armies march, masks burn. The 62nd is reminded of just what their priest can do, Herald Griffon accidentally initiates a firestorm he can't control and Herald Anur might have alienated another Heraldic sibling.</p><p>But the Rethwallen army made it to Valdemar without getting eaten by Furies, so that's something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Ulrich, Captain of the Sunsguard_

It was easy to forget, Ulrich reflected, that their chaplain was a Firestarter, and that to the rest of Karse, a Firestarter was the monster no one would admit to. Father Kir was very approachable, for one of those the children of Karse were raised to never approach willingly. He was normally a very calm, constant figure that he knew the men of the 62nd found comforting in his steadiness.

Right now, though, it was hard to remember that Father Kir _wasn’t_ one of those nightmare starters who blazed through towns with flames at his fingers and fanaticism in his eyes.

“There is an army marching across our Plains,” he was murmuring, pacing in front of them at the head of the table they’d spread maps over, half-lidded eyes roving from pallor stricken faces to trembling hands. “An _army_ , heading to Hardorn, host of our most ancient foes. Yet I hear proposals to waste lives of the Faithful, blood of the Sunlord’s Children, to _stop_ them.”

His fists were clenched, white-knuckled under the table, resting on his knees. He had been arguing against the action, had despaired of getting through to the 54ths Captain; the man was fanatical in his hatred of Valdemar and it was very obvious this Rethwallen army was marching to aid the northerners. That was small comfort, knowing that the priest was agreeing with him.

“They are seeking to aid the Witch-Queen of Valdemar,” Coronad protested, former strident tones faded to weak insistences, normally garrulous man flinching at the flare of red robes and shimmer of heat, full force of a ghost-eyed glare searing into his bones.

“Yes,” the priest acknowledged, flat tone not particularly promising, “But you will note I called Hardorn host to our _most ancient_ enemies. Is the education of officers so remiss that you cannot recall just who that is?”

Ulrich was unable to suppress his wince at that. There was no way Coronad could win – either he admitted that the Sunsguard was failing to properly train their officers or he admitted to personal failure in forgetting an enemy that a _Firestarter_ viewed more despicable than the White Demons.

“I, at least, do not recall these enemies,” Greich spoke up, looking remarkably composed from his spot at Ulrich’s left. It was only his rather close friendship with the sergeant that let him notice the unnaturally wide eyes and faint tremor in hidden hands. “But then I do not have the education of an officer.”

The look Coronad cast him was pitifully grateful, His Holiness clearly catching the look and his mouth twisting into a rough smile before he spun on his heel to begin pacing again, hands locked behind his back.

“ _Blood-mages_ ,” he sneered the piece-meal translation after a few moments of humming silence, whirling to a halt at the head of the table and glaring down his nose at them all, face locked in a disapproving blankness. “Or as the ancients called them, _witach_.”

There were only a few enlisted men here (lucky bastards were hiding in the kitchen itself he would guess) but those present looked interested at the word – noting it’s similarity to their modern curse of witch. Father Kir apparently noted those looks and inclined his head slightly, continuing, “The similarity to the modern word _witch_ is no coincidence. Those who were called _witach_ were the first to be burned, always and without exception. Should one enter Karse’s soil, they will be hunted down and their entire school burnt to ash – that is their fate. That is why they fear us.”

The almost friendly explanation shifted abruptly as he returned his focus to the four commanding figures around the maps, a snarl entering his tone as he said, “So if His High Holiness the Son of Sun finds it adequate, to lurk within our borders and hunt only those who trespass, so be it, His Wisdom Unending. But _I_ will not allow for _any_ who hunt these wretches to be delayed. I want them burnt to _ash_ , I want them hunted down and _destroyed_ to the very last and if I cannot do that myself then by the One God I will aid those who seek that end!”

He slammed his hand down onto the table, smoke and the scent of burning wood curling up from where he rested, leaning forward to glare at them all, eyes gleaming with a passion that sent a chill curling down Ulrich’s spine. That was _conviction_ , he had seen it before, too many times. That was a fanatic, unquestioning _belief_ that they were _right_ to seek this course of action. That sort of faith, that sort of conviction – it couldn’t be faked. It _couldn’t_.

Sunlord please, that they never step into the realm of that conviction. Fighting a true believer was always a losing proposition and with one as powerful as Father Kir it was a death wish.

“I suggest then, that we send two scouts with you, Holiness Dinesh,” Ulrich found himself saying, mind scrambling to come up with a plan that would get this man (ally, comrade but oh so frightening) the _hell away from them_ – “And monitor the situation. One can ride ahead to warn shepherds and settlements of the incoming army so no one tries to be a martyr, and if someone refuses to listen to reason you can add authority to the suggestion.”

Grey eyes met his and he quailed internally, that hard expression not fading but something in the eyes changing at their meeting – he recognized it, he _did_ , but he was too worried about not flinching and physically shying away in front of his men to consider the pain lurking there.

“Agreeable,” the priest finally said flatly, pulling back from his predatory looming and nodding shortly at them all, “Choose your scouts, I will be waiting at the gates.”

“Very good, Your Holiness,” Ulrich agreed, three others around him echoing his sentiment, the priest turning sharply and leaving the mess hall, door shutting behind him in deafening silence.

A solid count of three passed before everyone in the room shuddered and slumped over, supporting themselves on walls or tables – whatever was at hand. “You lot have my utmost sympathies,” Coronad said fervently, “I cannot imagine sleeping at night with _that_ in my walls.”

Something in that sat wrong. The sentiment, sincere and, judging by the nods circling the members of the 54th, rather universal, was _wrong_. He slept _easy,_ knowing there was a sunpriest he could trust in his walls. That a sunpriest who stood _with them,_ against politics, against enemies foreign and domestic as _they_ saw them, was in the next building over.

But his hands were still shaking, heart still pounding and some ancient instinct screaming that he had only _just escaped_ the man he trusted with the fate of his unit.

The priesthood, in a curse.

_Sescha Brothers, Scouts of the Sunsguard_

They had been hiding in the kitchens with as many enlisted men as could fit during Father Kir’s rage, but when they’d all come out after he left they had seen the Captain’s eyes lock on them and they knew. Two scouts, and a squad of five was all that came to this meeting. Of course he’d send them, they were a ready-made team and they’d worked with their Sunpriest before.

Judging by the sympathetic and poorly concealed relieved expressions, even on members of their own unit, if they survived this they’d get plenty of sympathy drinks. A definite plus.

Saluting and accepting the murmured well-wishes with good grace, they stepped into the drizzle as one and made their way to the stables, horses quickly saddled and saddlebags stocked, Father Kir waiting by the gate as promised, oil-skin coat glistening in the dampness. The man’s ever patient gelding snorted as they approached and the three of them mutely rode out, Balin and Galen letting their mountain-bred horses fall into matching step behind him.

Even after they were out of sight of the barracks, well out of earshot too, they stayed in silence. The twins exchanged glances, thoughts following a similar track. Neither wanted to be the one to break it – they had entered the Sunsguard for lack of better options, stationed close enough to home that seeing the family was a matter of a single day off, and their plan had been to serve out their seven years and retire to sheep-herding with crazy stories of bravery to drag some of the better ladies to them.

Not to somehow become embroiled in a desperate half-declared war with not-so-secret alliances across The Border, with a Sunpriest who had been blessed by the Ascending Son and was more than a little terrifying in his own right. Come on, who would believe _those_ stories?

Head down, slog through, come out at the end alive. That had been the plan. That _was_ the plan. Now their plan was dying a flaming death, given how often they’d been sent out with their Sunpriest. Great adventures, good fun, but they could do without the constant scrambling to keep up on just what they were dealing with from moment to moment.

Speaking of, what the frosted hells was their job this time around?

“Father Kir?” Balin finally spoke up, the priest turning his head slightly to regard them out of the corner of his eye, a raised eyebrow prompting him to continue, “Just what _do_ you want us to be doing on this stretch sir? Is there a plan? With – ah – the northern cousins?”

He finally turned completely in his saddle to regard them, dark eyes disturbingly blank before he apparently deemed them worthy of an answer, turning to face forward again before saying coolly, “There is no plan. The Rethwallen army is going to reinforce them, that was planned. But a crossing through Karse was not part of it, for good reason. It is a _stupid_ idea.”

He paused for a long moment, Galen even opening his mouth to ask another question before the priest continued, “I would have one of you carry a message to Valdemar, so they know where their wayward allies are marching. The other I would have fulfilling Captain Ulrich’s orders, to seek out families and settlements and warn them. If they decide to evacuate, they will be able to find shelter at the 62nd so long as there are not truly excessive numbers.”

“And yourself, sir?”

“I will be ensuring the reports to Sunhame of the army marching don’t result in Furies decimating their forces,” was the grim reply, “At least three got reports out to the south that I am aware of, depending on Brother Tahan’s willingness to relay messages there may be more.”

“…Furies? Sir?” Balin asked, completely willing to admit to the shaky tone. Furies were the nightmare of border people, they could come down and destroy perfectly faithful families with no warning and then all their belongings were confiscated by the priesthood and their connections drawn into immense scrutiny because Furies, of _course_ , would _never_ target an actual faithful.

Furies had targeted _Father Kir_. They would attack anything that lived.

“Do not travel alone at night if you can help it,” their priest finally said, sounding exhausted, “That is truly the only advice I can offer. I will present a more tempting target alone – I know how to lure them. Sunlord’s will that they do. No one deserves those wretches.”

“Not even… blood mages? Sir?” Balin asked, ignoring his brother’s frantic gestures to shut up. They may have missed the gleaming eyes of fanaticism, but they could guess from the tone and the utter _shift_ in the mood of the room that this was a topic their priest felt very strongly about.

“Not even them,” there was no hesitation in that response, no brief wavering. Good to know, Balin exchanged nods with his brother. Good to know indeed, that there were lines their priest would not cross, even to destroy those of _witach_. Reassuring to know, honestly.

“I will head across the border,” Galen offered after a few more moments in silence, “Balin can send the messages to the shepherds.”

“Very well,” Father Kir nodded, pulling a rolled up map from his bags and waving him forward, horses halting as the three clustered around to view the map. It was a rare find – an accurate map of the dead-zone on both sides of the border, the area within the 62nds range the most detailed, naturally. There were charcoal markers scattered across it, symbols that didn’t fall within canonical cartography knowledge, so they were probably personal to the priest.

“We are heading for the north bridge,” the priest pointed on the map, the crossing of the Sun Serpent river where their own new territory began – it used to belong to the 103rd. “I will range south, as that is where the Rethwallen army will likely ford, from reports they are within a days hard march of fording the river and I doubt they are doing anything less. Once I find them, I will remain outside of their scouting sphere but nearby. When they camp – _if_ they camp – is when they will be the most vulnerable. They will have to stop at least once before hitting the Hardornen border on this side of the river, and that will give enough time for Furies to be sent.”

“After you cross the bridge, you will head here,” Father Kir indicated a circled ‘x’ on the map, two day’s hard ride from the bridge crossing and well into Valdemar. “Herald Anur and I are scheduled to meet shortly, he may very well be there already. I will write a letter for you to carry. If he is not there – it is up to you. If you feel comfortable, and _only then_ , if you continue north a mark you will hit a road, follow that road east – go right – and you will find a guard post on your left in a few marks, it is here.” A square around a dot, this time, “I have been there before, ask for Herald Anur. Do you know any Valdemaran?”

“No sir,” Galen replied, a quick lesson on basic words (like ‘truce’ and ‘don't shoot’) resulted. While Galen practiced his phrases, Balin echoing them as it might be useful one day, Father Kir scrawled a letter into a blank book with a charcoal writing stick, careful to keep it protected from the drizzling rain. Ripping the page out and folding it carefully, he handed it to Galen who quickly tucked it into his vest to protect the missive from the damp. Accepting the now rolled map, he bowed slightly in his saddle, exchanged brief farewells with his brother, and launched his horse forward, heading for the bridge.

Balin watched him go, worried but not as much as he might have. Valdemar, at least, didn’t have Furies that far into its borders.

Turning to the priest, whose gaze was locked on the disappearing figure of his brother, he asked, “Would you have me leave now, Father?”

The priest hesitated tellingly, before nodding shortly, Balin wanting to smack some of his brethren for making their priest think he was universally feared (respected, yes. Feared? Only sometimes). Time to repair some damage then, “A blessing, Father?”

The startled look on the chaplain’s face was a painful thing to witness, as was the almost immediate gratitude, a hand coming to rest on his bowed head as the priest murmured, “Vkandis most high watch over you, shield you and guide you. Go with the Sun.”

Balin waited for him to remove his hand and straightened, giving an appropriate half-bow of respect before departing, mare eager to lope after standing in the rain. The proprieties should always be observed – it was polite, and it was far too appreciated by their priest to be common.

_Devek, Lieutenant of the Sunsguard_

Devek Koshiro was good at his job. Given, he wasn’t the _highest_ ranked Lieutenant here, nor was he even within the Captain’s advisory circle, but he was good at what he did, managing scouts and archers of the 62nd. He still had four years in his contract and the odds were good he’d be promoted to at least a Senior Lieutenant, maybe even a full Captain in his own right if he were transferred out, and he was looking forward to it.

At least, he had been, before he’d realized just how lucky the 62nd was within the Sunsguard.

Even now, he was sitting in the chapel (one of the warmest places in the barracks with a truly ever-burning flame), playing cards with a cook and a medic that were off duty with him. Playing cards in _the chapel_ , now that was something commonly Not Done in Karse.

Trusting a Sunpriest to watch your back was something Not Done in the Sunsguard. He had been in a unit like that for his first year as a junior officer and it had been awful – they had always had to look over their shoulder, felt a crushing presence as the priest lurked in the wings, waiting for someone to slip into vague heresy. And that was just a pastoral red robe!

The 62nd? They had a _Firestarter_ , and while at first glance that was a million times worse, within the first month of his stationing here he had realized that no one lived in terror of their priest. Certainly, they treated the man with the wary respect due his station, but they weren’t _scared_ of him. He could sit in the mess hall and while they would watch their tongues, they wouldn’t sit in stiff, awkward conversation.

He had gone on _cross-border intelligence exchanges_ for Vkandis’ sake! No one did that, taking a priest into another nation was tantamount to risking war, especially with even a vague chance of encountering a Valdemaran patrol, or Sunlord forbid, a White Demon.

Then Hardorn had happened and it had become very obvious _very quickly_ that they were the luckiest Sunsguard in Karse, having a Firestarter not only willing and able to step onto the battlefield, but they had one that would risk _everything_ to keep them alive and healthy. He had gone into _Valdemar_ for them, returning with months of supplies and followed by an actual _White Demon_.

And _then_ , as if that weren’t enough, some marvelously coincidental bandit raids on the other side of the border sent much reduced and panicked bandits right into their waiting blades. While he wasn’t willing to speculate aloud (as some idiots had and he had quickly silenced) it was very clear after the first two that this was no coincidence and their priest’s frequent wanders into the dead-zone (witch-hunting, please) took on an entirely new light.

Going back to the normal Sunsguard would be damn difficult after this. He _liked_ having a chaplain he could be at ease around and it was _interesting_ to be here, to be this close to the center of things, of things he could almost taste world-changing _potential_ in.

Devek eyed the letter sitting on a stool by the door to Father Kir’s quarters in the back of the chapel. It had arrived three days ago, missing the group heading for the 103rd’s barracks by a few marks, if that. Letters in that hand had been scarce, but definitely noticeable in their frequency – before this correspondence had been struck up he honestly couldn’t recall their priest receiving a single personal letter.

But if rumors were true (and he actually trusted these rumors) those letters were from none other than the _Ascending Son_ , a _woman_ who performed actual miracles and who the entire Sunsguard had heard whispers of by now from the 21st.

The potential, the sheer promise in being able to _say_ that – it was incredible. And he was so, so lucky to be here where he could see the future of his country changing, that he could say in the future that he had _been here_ that he had _seen it happen_.

The doors slammed open and they all jumped, cards scattering as they leapt to their feet, snapping to attention entirely automatically at the sight of their priest, dripping water and wild-eyed, standing in the doorway to the chapel. “Father Kir!” Devek said promptly, “Is everything all right?”

“Rethwallen army marching across the plains to get to Hardorn, reasoning unknown,” Kir replied shortly, striding past them to his quarters, leaving the letter aside and the door open. Devek took the action as an invitation and followed, hovering in the doorway and watching as the priest tore through his room, grabbing seemingly random items and packing them together into his saddlebags.

“Do you require back-up, Father?”

“No, thank you Lieutenant,” an extra pair of boots, looked too big for the priest, “I will be escorting them from a distance,” a red sash of some sort? “The quartermaster is resupplying my bags and Riva is being tended to,” was that a packet of rank sigils? “Second Scouts Sescha are alerting the relevant parties that an army is crossing our nation.”

“Very well sir. When should we expect you back?” Devek asked, stepping back to let the priest pass him, door shut behind.

“I will try to be back before the moon is over,” Father Kir replied, grim tone and expression belying the thread of exhaustion Devek could read in a desperately straight spine and squared shoulders. “At the least I will send word.”

“Sir,” he nodded, the priest about to leave the chapel entirely when Devek realized he’d forgotten the letter, “Father Kir! This letter arrived for you!”

He rushed to hand the letter over, recalling from other times that these letters usually put him in good spirits, and if the priest was anticipating an entire two weeks worth of trouble out of this army marching (he really wanted more information but the man was clearly in a rush) he could use the morale boost.

Devek was in the middle of mentally patting himself on the back, the priest having snatched the letter with barely concealed eagerness and hope when he found himself scrambling back a few steps, the priest’s expression something completely unspeakable and letter smouldering in hand. The hot paper was shoved into his chest, Father Kir whirling on his heel and shouting over his shoulder, “Burn it!”

“Ah, Father?” he asked hesitantly, before deciding it was just as well the man had ignored him, judging by the way people took one look at their priest’s face and fairly dove out of the way, steam rising from him as rain was burned off.

Heading for the ever-burning flame, Devek hesitated before casting it into the fire as ordered, giving in to temptation and reading the remarkably short letter. All it contained was a single sentence – no salutation, no signature. Just one line, and one he didn’t understand the reaction to.

_We trust in your judgment, brother._

_Anders, Lieutenant of the Valdemaran Guard_

Tension was humming in the air, he could _taste_ it, even standing on the walls doing something _useful_. This trap, devised by mercenaries and their own, had seemed such a good idea, such a solid plan – but it was turning on them, something was going _wrong_ and no one could figure out how the _hell_ they were supposed to fix it. Hells, they couldn’t even figure out how they could hold until the promised Rethwallen allies came, if they were even coming.

Anders Corith was not an ambitious man. Originally sent to the guard in lieu of a decade in the mines, he had fallen in love with the job after hunting bandits like he used to be. Sure, they were bandits near Karse instead of lurking in the trees of Sorrows, but bandits nonetheless and it wasn’t until he had this job that he realized how _fun_ it could be, to be on the other side of the law.

So he had been content, hunting bandit groups in the south, just one man among many. But apparently when he had re-enlisted, professing a dream of living the rest of his life in the guard, all those commendations that had apparently been lurking because of his sentencing suddenly sprang forward and he found himself shooting up in the ranks, finally settling under the formidable Captain Naomi as second in command and Lieutenant.

He was perfectly content with that. He had enough authority to get things done and get his voice heard, with none of the true burdens of unit-level command and dealing with the higher ups. The perfect place for him and he was determined, if he _ever_ , gods forbid, got offered a promotion he would turn it down without question. Definitely not worth the headaches he had plied his Captain with tea for over the years.

Then he had the utter misfortune of finding out that Captain Naomi really _was_ just as hungry for dead bandits as everyone had said, when she agreed to an under-the-table (but Herald sanctioned) alliance with _Karse_ of all places. Oh sure, it was just one unit, and really just the officers of one unit, but still. _Karse_.

At least he’d had the chance to meet this priest that had proposed the idea, giving them all brief panic attacks when he rode up demanding a meeting with a Herald. It was a good thing they’d thought he was a scout or some enlisted equivalent, because if they’d known he was a priest (and apparently a _witch-hunting_ priest at that) they would have shot him dead first and apologized later.

And telling a Herald that their friend was dead was never fun. Telling one that _you’d killed_ that friend? They’d be lucky to make it out alive, much less with their careers intact.

“Rider incoming!” an alert came down the line, and he quickly perked up and jogged over to take the spyglass from the lookout who’d cried the alarm, raising it to his eye and squinting through the piece, straining to see through the misty rain of the early morning.

“The hell?” he murmured, recognizing those colors. That was a Karsite riding up! Damn it their alliance was supposed to be _under the table_ , something must have gone very wrong to make that priest risk running here in daylight again.

“Get a horse!” he shouted down, handing the spyglass back and sternly ordering the lookout to keep his trap _shut_ about the rider’s colors with a fierce look. The lookout, one of his, thankfully, only nodded and Anders quickly clattered down the steps, swinging up onto the horse being offered him and bursting out of the gates at a mud-sodden run.

The moment he was within earshot of the man (looking suspiciously _unlike_ that priest curse it all) he called in Karsite, “Halt!”

The stranger’s horse quickly slowed and stopped, sides heaving as the man, most certainly _not_ that priest, held his hands up in surrender and said in slow Karsite, “I seek Herald Anur. I have a message.”

“What’s the message?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes, he’d be damned if some Karsite spy got to their Herald on a suicidal assassination mission. Heralds were too precious to risk like that.

“A letter from Father Kir,” the man replied, typically Karsite features strained with worry and exhaustion if Anders had to guess. Too bad, he needed more than that.

“A Rethwallen army is marching across Karse, we think they are heading to engage Hardorn,” and there was that more he had been looking for. Time to engage in a time-honored tradition – pass it uphill.

“Come on, I’ll escort you,” Anders said brusquely, turning his mare around to pace next to the Karsite’s horse, a small mountain breed if he wasn’t mistaken, very good in these hills. “Lieutenant Anders Corith.”

“Second Scout Galen Sescha,” the scout replied, absently stroking his horse’s neck with one hand. “Could I tend to my horse? We have been running most of the past three days.”

“Mind one of ours doing it? I need to get you to the Herald immediately, we’re pressed for time,” Anders replied, the scout shrugging and nodding agreeably. Good, he’d just wanted the horse taken care of. Besides, if they wanted him dead, why waste the effort on sabotage? He was already here, what the hell would Karse do if he vanished? Nothing, if the higher ups even noticed, that’s what.

Wide eyes and a rash of murmurs followed them through the gates, the Karsite man watching blank-faced as the horses were taken to be tended, a runner streaking off to find Herald Anur out of the multiple Heralds lurking here waiting for a call to arms.

Anders made the executive decision to find Captain Naomi and get some food into this scout at the same time. Good hosting and all that. Besides, they’d get more information out of him if he wasn’t about to pass out from exhaustion. He went for the mess hall, knowing they would have word of where the officers were today, keeping an eye on his Karsite shadow and knowing that every eye was watching them with hands ready to go for weapons. The scout was doing an admirable job of ignoring the half-hostile looks, but not as good as the priest had. From what Anders remembered, the few times the priest had been wandering around without Herald Anur as an escort, the man had seemed entirely at home, smiling agreeably to those who met his eyes and willing to answer general questions in halting Valdemaran.

Though of course, it was entirely possible the priest hadn’t even noticed. Priests weren’t trained to notice things like that, at least not in Valdemar.

He herded the man into a seat and waved down some food – not the best, nowhere near, but judging by the way the man gratefully inhaled the warm whatever-it-was, this Scout Sescha could care less about taste. Hells, the man barely even twitched when Captain Naomi strode into the hall, making a beeline for them and demanding in Karsite, “What’s happened?”

“A Rethwallen army is marching across Karse, heading for Hardorn near as we can tell,” the man reported after swallowing some water, “Father Kir is keeping Furies off them and making sure no one interferes with their passage. My brother is warning shepherds and settlements to stay out of the way. Are they expected?”

“Not through Karse,” Captain Naomi said shortly, “If you’re done, let’s go. The Herald is in the map room.”

Anders was hoping he could escape, but judging by the sharp look he was sent, the attempt did not go unnoticed and it was not appreciated. Seemed he was following then. At least he would get a good story out of it.

The three of them made it to a room filled with people of higher rank than him – three Heralds, one of which was their target, four Captains and a few Lieutenants that actually wanted to be promoted, sorry bastards.

“Herald Anur, this man has a letter for you from that priest of yours,” Naomi said in Valdemaran, waving at the Karsite scout who quickly handed it over to the expectant man, “Apparently the Rethwallens are marching across Karse, of all places. Should be crossing into Hardorn today or tomorrow, if they’re fast.”

“Right. I’m going to Karse,” Herald Anur said, letter apparently short as it was within seconds of him unfolding the thing.

“Anur, be reasonable, by the time you get there – if you can even _find_ him, the Rethwallen forces will be well within Hardorn or Valdemar, Griffon will be fine and you’ll be more useful here! We’re going to need all the Heralds we can get with this one,” Herald Lenora argued, resting her hand on his arm as he stood from the map strewn table.

“I don’t give a good _damn_ what you think, Kir needs _me_ and Griffon needs _Kir_ , I am going, _now!”_ Herald Anur snarled, eyes blazing and expression suddenly furious (a long standing argument it seemed), wrenching his arm out of Herald Lenora’s hold and turning towards the door, Anders still in his path and having a chance to stop him.

“Now wait a min – “ he was suddenly yanked out of the way, an iron grip on his arm and he stumbled, Herald Anur already past him and down the hall by the time he realized just who had pulled him out of the man’s way.

“Are you _stupid_?” Sescha demanded of him, grip still tight on his arm, eyes wide, “When a priest has that sort of look on their face, you _move_!”

“He’s a _Herald_ ,” Anders replied, exasperated, “Heralds and priests are _not_ the same!”

“No,” the man agreed, tone still grim, “You idiots _love_ them for it.”

_Kir, Sunpriest of Karse_

Kir spat out a glob of blood and mud onto the ground, rinsing his mouth out with water to try and get the taste out. He’d taken a fall during his frantic running around last night to deal with Furies and bit the inside of his cheek to bleeding – and there was little of him that _hadn’t_ gotten covered in mud over the course of the cross-country race. Riva huffed tiredly beside him and he patted the horse’s neck in weary commiseration. It was over at least, Rethwallen’s army well into Hardorn by now and all that was left for him to do was decide between returning to barracks or lingering for the remaining two weeks he’d given himself.

He could always find a traveler’s chapel, take a bit of a break, he supposed, but it probably wasn’t the most effective of ideas. Especially since Midwinter was only a couple moons ago, he couldn’t really justify taking time off so soon.

Chiming hooves stirred him from the internal debate, and he quickly looked up, smile growing on his face as he recognized that blurred white figure. The witch-horse slowed and stopped next to him, not sliding and sending muck all over him again which was much appreciated. “Herald,” he smiled wryly at his friend, “You just missed them.”

“Ah, seriously?” Anur groaned, dismounting and sagging against Aelius’ side. “By how much?”

“Crossed the border entirely this morning,” Kir said ruefully, “Marched most of the way through the night, apparently they _did_ take rumors about the Furies seriously.”

“So close,” Anur sighed, before shaking it off and straightening again, “Well, thank you Kir, for informing us and getting them through safely. Did you get hit at all?”

“Nothing worth worrying about,” Kir waved off, eyeing his friend worriedly, “What of you and yours? How is the plan going?”

“Not well at all,” Anur said grimly, “We’d set up a trap but it’s turning on us and we can’t figure it out, but these reinforcements are more than welcome. With any luck, we’ll be able to get out of this one too.”

“Griffon?”

“They’re sending constructs near constantly against a different section of the border, he’s assigned there with a small squad while the majority of the army and Heralds are up by Iftel with the rest of Ancar’s forces,” Anur grimaced, “It’s frustrating for him, to be so clearly and easily brushed aside.”

“It would be,” Kir hesitated, before continuing, “I am not expected back for another week – “

Anur was already shaking his head, but before he could say anything he suddenly gasped, clutching at his head and sagging against Aelius. Kir quickly reached out for him, steadying him with hands on his friend’s shoulders, asking, “What is it?”

“Griffon,” Anur gasped, pulling back and clambering into his saddle, face still twisted with pain, “Something’s wrong with Griffon.”

Kir was on Riva’s back in moments, the horse perking up and seeming to gain a second wind. He sent a suspicious look to the witch-horse but let it go, he needed to keep up and Riva hadn’t been harmed by the aid yet. “Then let’s go,” Kir said simply, and Anur didn’t argue this time, only nodding even as Aelius spun around and launched forward, Riva eagerly taking off in pursuit.


	2. Chapter 2

_Griffon, Herald of Valdemar_

“Shut up shut up shut up shut up!” Griffon screamed, clutching at his head as fire roared around him, Harevis prancing under him, eyes rolling wildly.

It had started as usual except he was needed _elsewhere_ , desperately, but couldn’t go because these blasted constructs were getting across the border and it was better that one Herald were here and freeing up the other guards to go and help block the trap turned invasion. All he wanted to do was _help_ and he _had been_ , until this he had been essential and was on his way to being the Lord Marshal’s Herald and he still would be but he hated being shunted aside like this he _hated hated hated_ it –

White hot flames surged outward and he whimpered, knuckles white in his hair as he strained to pull the flames down around him. It was all he could do to keep the flames from eating up all the air Harevis and he needed to breathe, stopping the blasted _buzzing_ just wasn’t a major priority right now!

He had hated it so much and suddenly, somewhere between the third and seventh construct it had just clicked, what Sunpriest Dinesh had been saying, what had been carefully implied and danced around this entire time was just _there_ , staring him in the face.

 _“Heartbeats,”_ the cautious voice echoed in his mind, _“Voices – they’re all, they’re all vibrations, they hum.”_

All you had to do, Dinesh had said that frost-coated morning, was listen.

Listen to heartbeats, to breathing to that heady rush of breath moving into lungs listen to them _living_ and he got it, he finally did. What did Firestarters burn?

“Nononono,” he murmured, voice choked and clogged with tears and ash, “No children, there weren’t any children.”

He heard it, then. As the seventh-eighth construct in as many hours crashed towards him and his guard escort, straining for any edge to help him, he _got it_ and it was like the world suddenly splintered open before him. The construct roared in pain as it went up in flames, Griffon suddenly _hearing_ the mages that were responsible, shielding aside, and _knowing_ that all he had to do was just _twitch_ –

But he had reached too far, Harevis barely able to get him away from the guards and plunge into the Hardornen regulars that were slowly blinking their way into awareness just in time to see white death descend on them in flames. It was _all_ burning, he couldn’t _stop_ it there was just this buzzing _all the time_ and it wouldn’t leave him _be_!

Then, on the edge of his range, was a sudden increase in pitch, a thundering chaos of buzzes and hums that he could already recognize as being distinctly _human_ and gods _no_ hadn’t he killed _enough_ random bystanders today?

The fires started dying.

Griffon shuddered, watching in disbelief turned to desperate hope as the new arrivals plunged ever closer into his firestorm and the buzzing quieted in their wake, subsiding to levels he could ignore. His focus narrowed to what was left and he shoved at it, trying to follow the example – now that he knew it was possible, knew it could be done, he had to try it, he just _had to_.

The firestorm’s remnants shattered around him and he opened his eyes to Harevis’ relieved voice, _:Chosen.:_

 _:Harevis,:_ he gasped, slumping forward along the Companion’s neck, _:Harevis I’m so sorry it just wouldn’t_ stop _.:_

_:It’s all right Chosen, it’s going to be all right.:_

“Herald Griffon,” the voice startled him and he flinched back, then panicked as he felt flames flare up and the buzzing skyrocketed before abruptly settling back down and he shuddered, trying to calm down before he set more things on fire.

He looked over at the new arrivals and could have wept; he should have known. Who else could have stopped the flames but the Firestarter that told him of the blasted buzzing in the first place? Covered in ash, grime and blood, the Firestarter cut a grim figure, Anur not looking much better in his equally destroyed Whites.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he said quietly, words suddenly tumbling out of him as he tried to justify himself, his utter _failure_ as a firestarter, to these two who knew so very well the destruction his Gift-curse could cause, “I finally got it I _got it_ with the constructs and then the mages were just _there_ and all I had to do was _reach_ for them and I needed to we need the help up north I had to finish up here and go but something just snapped and the buzzing the blasted humming it just _wouldn’t stop_ – “

“Easy, easy Griff,” his brother Herald was suddenly there, Companions bracing one another and ash stained Whites wrapping around him, “You’re all right just breathe for me, okay? Breathe and calm down.”

“Remaining calm is vital,” Sunpriest Dinesh said, Griffon shuddering and burying his face against Anur’s uniform. He didn’t want to see the barren ash-land surrounding him, the molten metal pieces that were all that remained of a not insignificant Hardornen force. “Especially now.”

“I don’t understand, how is it – how can everything just _light_ like that?” Griffon shuddered again, finally looking up to meet the Sunpriest’s gaze, something strangely like sympathy in those eyes.

_Kir, Sunpriest of Karse_

Kir saw a shade of himself in those eyes, confused and utterly terrified as a taste of the sheer _danger_ that lived within him was finally realized. His first weeks after discovering that buzz were filled with random fires and fever outbreaks – he couldn’t believe that he hadn’t realized that someone with Griffon’s immense strength (brute forcing multiple massive constructs to catch on fire? Griffon was _powerful_ ) and little understanding of theory would probably have no idea of what to do when things finally snapped together.

“Not everything,” he corrected gently, pointing at the metal slag, “Simply – the living. Living flesh, of any sort, plant, human, animal – it always burns easier. Formerly living flesh, like wood, is easier as well, but the concern right now is the fact humans are remarkably easy to ignite.”

He ignored the shudders running through both Heralds. He had hoped, had _tried_ , to avoid this entirely but that had gotten them nowhere beyond massive destruction, thankfully their enemy’s. “There is a core of heat – for males, it is near the center of their diaphragm. Women have theirs lower, in the abdomen. Flaring that is relatively simple and sets them alight from the inside out. That is what I did to the witch that day we met – if you ignite it fast enough the flames consume their internal organs without destroying their skin, depending on how quickly you suppress the flames. It makes for a dramatic death.”

He looked around at the scorched earth around them and grimaced, recognizing charred bones mixed in with the slag of metal. “It looks as though you did not have that much control in this instance.”

“Oh gods,” Griffon groaned, pulling away from Anur and leaning over Harevis’ other side, retching until all that came up was bile.

While he did that, various patches of their surroundings started increasing their pitch and Kir quickly tamped down on it, not wanting any more fires to spring up, especially not considering they were the only easily lit things within easy reach. It had taken them a half-mark to reach Griffon from their meeting point, and the amount of destruction the Herald had wrought was impressive – though more impressive was the fact that no Valdemarans had been harmed. That was promising.

“I can’t let you leave without regaining some form of control,” Kir informed him, “Even now I’m actively intervening to keep anything else from lighting on fire.”

“It just won’t _stop_ ,” Griffon said, tone clearly winding into hysteria and Kir snarled, flaring the air surrounding him to a shimmering heat-wave to draw Griffon’s subconscious attention as well, “Enough,” he said shortly, “I have neither the time, nor the patience for hysterics. You have lost control of your ability. I will help you regain it, quickly, but only if you can remain focused and cease with the _panicking_. Understood?”

Griffon flinched as though he’d been physically struck, Anur shooting Kir a half-hearted glare which the priest ignored, instead focusing on Griffon. The firestarting Herald finally looked up at him and nodded shortly, saying lowly, “I accept your terms.”

“Good. Then we will begin. Dismount,” he ordered, following his own command and looping Riva’s reins around the horn so the horse wouldn’t trip on them. “Herald, please retreat at least five meters beyond the scorched zone – if you would ensure Herald Griffon’s military escort is all right, that would be appreciated. Witch-horse Harevis, kindly go with.”

“Harevis helps with control,” Griffon blurted, “I wouldn’t have been able to keep from burning myself up without him.”

“Well then you’ll be better motivated,” Kir said coolly, sending up a silent prayer that this method would actually work. Half his control had been obtained simply because flames started going wild around him and he needed to regain control of his powers before either he lit himself on fire or he was accused of witchcraft.

Self-preservation was a powerful instinct. Besides, he had enough control of his personal ‘buzz’ that Griffon would have to do something extremely impressive to light him on fire – but if all his focus was on remaining alive and keeping the firestarting Herald alive, he wouldn’t have much energy to spare towards keeping their compatriots alive and he didn’t want to risk that.

The red-haired Herald’s Companion whickered, nudging his shoulder gently and waiting for Griffon to nod hesitantly before heading out, following Anur and Riva, who had already started for the edge of the scorched zone.

The two firestarters were left staring at each other over the scorched bones of Griffon’s enemies. “I just wanted to get the mages,” Griffon said quietly, “That’s all I wanted to do.”

“That’s all you _intended_ to do,” Kir corrected, arms crossed and hands hidden up his sleeves, letting him keep his white knuckles from view. “I think you’ll find that you _wanted_ quite a bit more.”

Griffon hesitated, clearly debating his response, before nodding reluctantly. Kir took that as a positive – so much of this power relied on instinct that lying about what one internally wished for was a devastating misstep. If Griffon could be honest with himself, the odds of Kir being implicit in a Herald’s death were lessening.

Anur had finally exited the danger zone and was continuing, apparently following Kir’s request to contact Griffon’s assigned guardsmen. Good, that would keep him much further out of range – this was going to be big to start with.

“Put out the fire, Herald!” Kir smirked over at him, taking a few steps back, ash puffing up around his feet, “That’s all you need to do.”

Griffon blinked, opening his mouth to ask something before Kir’s vision of him was blocked by roaring flames, a storm of flames, fueled almost entirely by his own will given how dead the earth already was, surrounding them entirely. Kir dropped to his knees and rested his palms on the ground to get a better sense of the firestorm’s range over the land. He took a deep breath, hot air burning at his lungs and ash coating his tongue, a grin on his face nonetheless.

He could feel Griffon, sudden spike indicating panic and the immediate surge in the power of the storm making him laugh – there was the problem. Griffon had been trained to harness emotions into his Firestarting; maybe not consciously, but he had been either because of teachers or previous records. So whenever he experienced a sudden spike in emotion, particularly one like fear or anger, one that got the heart pumping, his witch-power flared whatever fires were already around him or started their own.

With how powerful Griffon was, the amount of energy pouring into this firestorm was incredible – it was all Kir could do to keep his own breathable air from being consumed, so Griffon’s continued survival indicated that his witch-power, at least, responded to base self-preservation. A good sign.

“You’re feeding it Herald!” he shouted, thinning the flames between them so they could face one another, Griffon swaying where he stood, Kir grinning up at him. Judging by the flinch, it wasn’t a particularly comforting expression. “I can’t hold it forever!” he continued, jumping into exaggeration next, “You realize you’re heading for Valdemar now? Your own people, tsk. Even that Firestorm of yours managed to avoid friendly fire!”

The firestorm had advanced a half-meter towards Valdemar, though it had grown immensely in height.

“Stop it!” Griffon shouted, panic clear in his features and tone, “ _Stop it!_ I _can’t_!”

Kir felt his own internal temperature rise and he let some of the Hardornen side of the firestorm go free so he could clamp down on it, a snarl twisting his features and he rose to a predatory crouch, intentionally remaining very primal in actions – he needed Griffon’s reactions, conscious and subconscious, to sync and if that meant he needed to be the threat – so be it.

“Trying to kill me Herald?” he laughed wildly, “You really think killing me will stop this storm? This is _your_ storm now, Herald, all I’m doing his reining it in! Kill me, and this storm engulfs _nations_! Try it! Do it! Wake up in a barren wasteland, everyone cursing your name as demon or worshiping you as a vengeful god-king! _I dare you_!”

“No!” Griffon shouted at him, and Kir could _feel_ it suddenly come together, everything the Herald had suddenly switching from fueling the flames to crushing them and he quickly pulled his will from the storm, not fighting for it as he could have. It was a waste of energy, and he needed Griffon to shut it down and realize he _could_ shut it down, not fight for control of some monstrous firestorm.

Flames finally vanished, slag even less recognizable as it had re-melted, bones now reduced to powdery ash and the entire blackened land shimmering as heat released from the earth. Griffon stood, panting and shaking from exertion, Kir not in a much better state and bracing himself on his knees. “Congratulations, Herald,” he gasped, shooting the Herald an honest smile this time, “You did it.”

“I did?” Griffon asked blankly, blinking for a few moments before just what he had done finally dawned on him. “I did! I did it!” he crowed, looking around at the flame-free earth, “I actually – Kir! I did it!”

He spun to face him, Kir suddenly staggering back as the Herald launched at him, arms wrapped around his waist and the Herald crying into his shoulder, repeating, “Thank you, thank you,” over and over.

Kir worked one of his arms free to drape it over the Herald’s shoulders, looking to the north where a pair of white blurs raced towards them, “You’re welcome,” he said simply, exhaustion finally starting to sink in, “Glad it worked.”

Before he pronounced the entire thing a success, he flicked a small fire, no larger than a campfire, into life behind them.

Griffon snuffed it within moments of the embers flaring.

Kir chuckled, “Feel that?”

“I just – it was automatic!” Griffon pulled back and stared at the place where the flame had been in shock, “I mean, I realized it wasn’t mine and it just – went out!”

“It will take a bit of work to not snuff every suddenly lighting flame within reach, but that is much easier to work with safely than flaring every flame within reach,” Kir shrugged ruefully, “It was a quick fix.”

“It _worked_ ,” Griffon said in quiet amazement, “I thought – I was so _scared_ , Kir. Ah – Sunpriest.”

“We just nearly burned one another alive,” Kir replied dryly, “I think that deserves first name basis.”

Griffon laughed, “Agreed.”

Any response was interrupted by Aelius and Harevis skidding to a halt beside them, Anur launching off his Companion and crashing into them, shouting, “What are you trying to do, _kill me_?”

_Anur, Herald of Valdemar_

Before he’d even gotten within shouting distance of the milling guards waiting for Griffon, a firestorm just _erupted_ behind him and Aelius whirled around, Anur screaming aloud, “Kir!”, echoing the cry with a mental shout of _:Griffon!:_

 _:Chosen!:_ Harevis broadcasted, Anur not even considering how unusual it was for him to be able to hear another Companion.

 _:Back!:_ Aelius roared at them both, launching back towards the border, Riva and Harevis following hard on his heels. Anur’s attention was locked over his shoulder at the surging mass of unnatural flames behind him, heat striking him like a blow, hard on the heels of the knowledge that his _brothers_ were in there.

“What the hell are they _doing_?!” he demanded, Aelius apparently deciding they were far enough back and stopping, turning again so they could observe from a relatively safe distance – given how fast it had erupted, he doubted anywhere in sight was truly safe.

 _:Control – Griffon couldn’t stop the flames, all he could do was flare them. My guess is this is an effort to force Griffon to start putting fire out while panicking rather than putting more power into them,:_ Aelius replied.

Harevis bobbed his head and broadsent again, saying, _:That was the problem earlier, he was so alarmed by what had happened that all control went out the window. Between stress, panic, and the fact that everything we’ve found has trained his Gift to respond to adrenaline inducing emotions with flames – it wasn’t pretty.:_

 _:That is remarkably a remarkably short-sighted training mechanism,:_ Aelius pointed out, _:Please tell me his source wasn’t the Firestorm chronicles.:_

 _:Where the hell_ else _were we supposed to get information?:_

Anur groaned aloud, saying, “Oh, I don’t know, _anywhere_? Firestorm could only _barely_ control his Gift, even I remember that much from lessons!”

Harevis just tossed his head angrily, no longer broadcasting his thoughts. The guards had apparently decided to approach and were now within speaking distance, the ranking officer of the small squad saying nervously, “Herald?”

Anur looked over at him and quickly swept his gaze over all four of them – to a man they were pale faced and shaky, too nervous for him to really want them around in what he didn’t doubt would very quickly become a delicate situation.

“Unfortunately,” he said, almost automatically spinning a believable version of what happened that would get them out of the way, “there is not much you can do now, it’s a matter of Heraldic Gifts. If you could report in to the main camp that Herald Griffon has eliminated the mages responsible for the constructs but is being held up due to a temporary loss of control because of magical backlash, I would be much obliged.”

“Of course Herald,” the man saluted, gratitude clear on his face as he turned to lead his men away from the rapidly heating area. Anur grimaced against the scorched air, looking back over at the firestorm in time to see it shift and surge suddenly, increasing yet again in size before starting to collapse in on itself.

Before the firestarters at the center were even visible through the flames, Harevis had bolted forward. Aelius waited until at least their outlines were clear before following, Riva huffing and following close behind. Anur made a mental note to ask about how the gelding was holding up to the repeated interference on Aelius’ part but that was soon drowned out by relief, seeing Griffon and Kir both still standing in what was now an ash-stricken wasteland.

Aelius had caught up to Harevis and they both slid to a halt, ash scattering around them in a cloud and he launched off the saddle, grabbing the two into a fierce embrace, demanding, “What are you trying to do, _kill me_?”

Kir, the bastard, just laughed at him and patted his shoulder, “No Herald. Simply burn Hardorn to the ground.”

“Well you made a good start,” he retorted, “What the _hell_ Kir? Griff, did that actually _help_?”

Griffon grinned up at him, ash stained and clearly exhausted, but just as clearly thrilled, “It did! It actually _did_ Anur, I can control it again!”

“Oh well that’s a relief,” he drawled, “I’d hate for my panic to be for nothing!”

Both firestarters just smiled, Anur quickly noticing that they were very near a complete collapse. Hells, he was surprised they were even conscious. “Right,” he said briskly, confident here at least that he could manage things, “Griffon, you get on Harevis. I’ll tie you on, just get in the saddle. Kir, are you going to be able to stay on Riva?”

The priest grimaced and shook his head, “Doubt it.”

“Okay, you’ll ride with me then,” Anur decided, Harevis kneeling next to them and Griffon shakily getting into the saddle. Aelius came up to support Kir while Anur dealt with securing Griffon and stood patiently while the two of them got settled, Riva just watching curiously.

Anur looked to the south and sighed, if it had been just him and Kir, he’d go for Karse and one of those pilgrimage chapels, but that was risky enough with a Herald who could speak fluent Karsite. Add _another_ Herald, very clearly _not_ Karsite and basically incapable of speaking the language and the risk far outweighed the benefit of cutting a good mark off their travel time.

“We’re heading into Valdemar, guard station you went to last time, Kir, it’s closest,” Anur said aloud. Griffon’s response was a snore and Anur shook his head ruefully, his headache was going to be awful when he came back around; just as well they were heading to the guard post, they already had ridiculous stocks of reaction-headache brew.

Kir sighed and slumped against his back, requesting, “Let me know when we get close, I’ll switch over to Riva.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Anur pointed out, the Companions picking up an easy jog northward, Riva snorting and keeping pace alongside.

Kir didn’t reply and Anur rolled his eyes, making a mental note to wake Kir up when they were just outside of sight of the barracks. It was a rather pointless request, but most certainly doable so there was no real reason _not_ to do it.

Riva picked up the pace to a lope, the Companions following and he cast a bemused glance towards the horse. He really did need to check in with Kir, that couldn’t be the horse’s natural stamina.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dirk, Herald of Valdemar_

Talia safely ensconced with the Queen and trying to work out the details of this thing with the newly chosen Prince of Rethwallen, check. Healers and assistants freshly rotated and stocked for another mark at least, check. Space set aside for the unwounded members of the Skybolts and Rethwallen army outside the walls, check. Food and other rations sent out to all parties, double check.

Dirk rested his hands on his hips and surveyed the guard post a hefty part of the army had descended upon. It was a little far from the actual conflict, the more seriously wounded taken to keeps and posts closer to the fight itself, but the men here were fresh and that was an important consideration with high ranking members of two nations’ courts present.

They had also received some concerning reports regarding Griffon and he was an important enough part of their defenses against Ancar that more than just personal friends and Heralds were anxious to check on him. Fortunate in one aspect, unfortunate in that it meant personal friends with no official connection had a hard time getting access to him in the first moments of their arrival.

Hence, Dirk’s checklist. He needed something to keep him busy and distract him from the wild rumors of firestorms and near suicide he’d been hearing, and while he knew Griffon was alive (and well, aside from a vicious headache still fading a couple of days after the incident itself) seeing a report get collected by the Queen was not the same as checking in on his student personally.

But it was well into the morning of their second day, surely Griffon would be available now!

 _:Ahrodie?:_ he asked, his Companion immediately understanding what he wanted (he’d only been whining about it for most of yesterday) and replying, _:They’re lurking in the training arena, the mucky one.:_

 _:They?:_ Dirk mused, Ahrodie understanding he didn’t want a reply, he’d rather see them for himself, and letting the rhetorical question go unanswered.

A spring in his step as he walked through the barracks, he returned nods and greetings but didn’t pause in his walk towards the arena Ahrodie indicated. It had been a long time since he’d had time to talk with Griffon – the Herald had come to Haven this past Midwinter but had spent much of the time either lurking in the snow practicing or locked up in War Councils, so they’d barely had time to wave and exchange greetings.

And, he thought ruefully, it looked like not much changed when Griffon was down at the border, judging by that oddly shaped fire in front of the three men on the far side of the arena. He noted with approval that there were three buckets of water sitting nearby – good, Griffon practicing this winter had apparently ended in some… interesting damage. A pair of spotters and some water was a _very_ good idea.

And speaking of the spotters, was that…? It _was_!

“Anur Bellamy!” Dirk called, grinning as he strode across the field and gladly shaking his old yearmate’s hand, pulling him into a back-slapping hug, “It has been too long! The wedding, right? And then I think I barely spoke to you – good to see you again! And Griff! Practicing again, I see. It’s good to see you again too, you look exhausted. And I’m afraid we’ve never been introduced. I’m Herald Dirk.” He held out a hand to the stranger, who was eyeing him curiously and noticeably paused before returning the gesture and shaking his hand, saying, “Kir Dinesh, Firestarter.”

Blinking for a moment, it took Dirk a bit to make the connection. “That’s right!” he said, looking between an oddly stand-offish Anur – the Anur _he_ remembered had made friends with anything that moved – and the understandably cautious priest. “You made friends with a Sunpriest Firestarter – exchanging tips with Griffon? I can’t thank you enough, I was his instructor initially but I’ll be the first to admit that my detailed knowledge of Firestarting couldn’t fill a small pamphlet. Firestarters on Griff’s scale are just too rare.”

The priest replied with a wordless hum of acknowledgement, white sun motif glistening on his chest – it was a beautiful piece of work. Griffon at least seemed happy to see him, cheerfully teasing him about Talia while Dirk took a seat next to him, rolling his eyes all the while. His wife’s yearmates and Skif had taken great pleasure in playing up the overprotective older brothers on him and kept it up on occasion.

“Now what’s this I hear about a firestorm consuming half of Hardorn?” Dirk frowned at his student, worry surging at the slightly guilty look on Griffon’s face. “Ahrodie says Harevis was in a panic, are you sure you’re all right?”

“We’re all fine,” Griffon replied with a tight smile, shadows Dirk had ignored earlier darkening his gaze again and Dirk wanted to rail against _something_ that Griffon had ever been pulled in to kill with his Gift. “Just – had a bit of a breakthrough, and it got a little out of control. Kir was with Anur when we sent out that distress call and they were able to get through and help.”

_Kir, Sunpriest of Karse_

Kir had looked up from the fire he was manipulating with Griffon when Anur had tensed beside him, not surprised to see the cause was another Herald walking towards them. For an order professing to be brothers and sisters with one another, his shield-brother seemed to have quite a few problems with his witch-horse chosen family. Their first day had been spent with Griffon trying to drown himself in willowbark tea and Kir struggling to stay upright while Anur fended off frustrated demands for an explanation from a Herald Lenora.

It was unfortunate that Second Scout Sescha had been long gone by the time they returned, Kir could have used the distraction.

The second day had been tense – everyone packing up to head out for the fight near Iftel while he and Griffon _both_ tried to drown themselves in willowbark and Anur ran interference – which had suddenly reversed when news of an unlikely victory arrived. Apparently the timely arrival of the Rethwallen army had been essential, so at least Kir’s multi-day sprint and Fury slaughter had been worth the effort.

Two days after _that_ , Kir at least had recovered enough that he could manipulate flames with no problems even if something on the scale of the firestorm would take a few more days to build up to and the higher ranks of uninjured arrived at camp to straighten out what would happen next. Griffon had been called into report, still wincing at loud noises and bright lights, while Kir and Anur had quite happily made themselves useful without drawing any attention.

Now Griffon had finally recovered enough to want to think about firestarting again and he had asked for some control exercises to continue the progress he’d made during the storm. They’d only just gotten everything ready and begun discussing exercises when the new Herald showed up and Anur completely froze.

“Is that was this is then?” the new Herald, Dirk (and _that_ name was familiar, Kir noted sourly) asked, indicating the small fire in front of them, “Practice? Should you really be doing that so soon, you were still wincing yesterday.”

“It’s simply a theoretical discussion on his part,” Kir inserted, “I am performing demonstrations and it is much easier to do when I am not generating the flames on my own.”

“I’m just listening and remembering,” Griffon agreed, shrugging as he continued, “My head’s still aching, just not as bad. I won’t be actually trying any of this for a few more days at least – weeks if I can manage it.”

“So what sort of exercises are they?” Dirk asked curiously, leaning forward to look around Griffon, bracing himself on his knees. “When I was training Griffon we were mostly focused on lighting and putting out fires on various materials at different distances – were we missing something?”

“For purely practical uses? No,” Kir replied dryly, “But for any sort of improvement of _understanding_? Yes. I take it you were not encouraged to – experiment.”

“Not outside of class or without spotters or something,” Griffon shrugged, continuing, “We also didn’t really have much time for practicing – at least not for Firestarting, it was a little volatile to practice independently and making schedules match up was always a challenge.”

As much as Heralds and Valdemar seemed to rely on their witch-powers, they really didn’t put much effort into truly understanding them, Kir reflected, which was a shame. They were missing so very much of the background information and even the inclination to apply what they knew creatively – maybe there were exceptions, individuals who explored and worked at their powers, but that knowledge wasn’t passed on in any organized fashion, witch-horse collective aside.

“What you are missing is control,” Kir finally said, directing his statement to Griffon, “You have plenty of raw power – if anything, excessive raw power. But you are wasting it. When I mentioned my own techniques too you, I had not expected your first true use of it to be in the middle of a combat situation which I should have considered, so for that I apologize. What you need to do now is regain your control and improve it dramatically. On a large scale, you have it. Even medium scale, such as this,” he indicated the flames in front of them.

“But small scale? Candles and such?” he shook his head, “You’ve lost it, if you ever had it. I feel certain you did when you started but as you built your power reserves you started losing your finer tuned capabilities – especially in a war like this where your massive destruction capabilities are more applicable.”

“The best control exercises are flashy little pieces,” Kir continued, smiling ruefully and twitching his fingers, strand of flame unwinding towards him and coiling through his fingers without burning him. He held the flame-wrapped hand out and watched in satisfaction as Griffon and Dirk’s jaws dropped, Anur smiling beside him.

“Showmanship,” he shrugged, flicking his fingers and sending the flames up, arching down into the main body of the fire after forming a bird, the flame construct flapping its wings a few times before merging into the fire again. Anur twitched his own fingers and a new log deposited itself in the flames.

“That was amazing,” Griffon breathed, eyes filled with a longing Kir recognized. He had always found fire beautiful – its sounds, movements, colors – the sheer variety available to flames, it was amazing. But most of his fires’ purposes were so ugly, especially after his ordaining, that it had taken conscious effort to not begin to hate his talent, to feel bitter about his ability for flames.

It had gotten easier, after saving Anur and Asher. He could only imagine how Griffon must feel: the Herald had never had a truly _useless_ use for his talent, nothing frivolous his witch-power could be used for. Flames needed a purpose to be safe, and with the narrow focus he had been taught it would be difficult to realize that being beautiful was sometimes enough of a purpose on its own.

The fact that they were excellent control exercises was a happy side-effect in Kir’s opinion. It just made it more likely that Griffon would actually _practice_ at this, with something that solid, that _desirable_ waiting for him at the end of the process.

“I wish I could practice now,” Griffon said wistfully, looking at the flames, “But my headache is still there and it’s just not worth the risk right now.”

“Definitely not,” Kir agreed. The headache had been brutal and Griffon’s had been worse, with how it was lingering.

“That is truly impressive,” the other Herald said, expression openly impressed, “I hadn’t realized that was even _possible_ with the firestarting Gift.”

Kir only inclined his head, suppressing the desire to demand just how this man had _taught_ Griffon. Certainly, he hadn’t been afraid of him and that was important, Griffon wasn’t truly _afraid_ of his ability, not until he’d lost control of it, but had he no interest in asking _why_ or _how_? What sort of records did these people _have_ – Kir knew damn well there were Firestarters, powerful ones, in the Heraldic past. That one at Burning Pines was certainly impressive, surely his techniques had been recorded for posterity!

Given Griffon’s apparent dislike for the history books, Kir would have to wait until he somehow got to Haven to look for the information himself.

Because _that_ would be happening anytime soon.

Griffon and Dirk were soon absorbed in a conversation about how he might best practice these techniques and how they could record them for future firestarters. Kir left them to it and took the opportunity to turn to a strangely quiet Anur and ask lowly in Karsite, “Are you all right?”

Anur hesitated, before half-heartedly shrugging with a rueful smile on his face, replying in kind, “Just… uncomfortable. Lenora wasn’t too happy with me, I sort of stormed out of here to go to you – we weren’t _doing_ anything, we were just sitting around waiting and there were plenty of people here to relay messages from the Queen and you needed my help but they were all saying I should just sit around and wait – I didn’t agree. And he – well, you remember the story. Haven’t really talked with him since, just – don’t feel right, I guess.”

“He doesn’t appear to hold a grudge,” Kir pointed out and Anur sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “He doesn’t. Ahrodie was – well, she wasn’t happy with me for a while. But… um… she’s over it, I think. Doesn’t give me dirty looks in the stables anyway. But I just – don’t feel right.”

“Well, you can always come to Karse,” Kir offered, lips quirking into a smile, “At least then you know pretty much everyone is trying to kill you.”

Anur huffed a laugh, saying wryly, “Honestly? If I had something other than Whites I’d go for it – I could definitely sell it as a short term espionage mission to determine the reason the mages couldn’t get into Valdemar but could pass through Karse.”

“... _that’s_ why they -? Never mind. You can explain that later, but first, are you serious? You’d actually – come to Karse? Just like that?”

“Well not for long, obviously, and I only have Whites and they’re a little obvious so it’s a moot point anyway,” Anur shrugged, “No cover ready or anything, it’d never work.”

Kir hesitated, shooting a quick glance to Griffon and Dirk who were now debating… scented wood types? Well, they were busy at least. Decided, he got to his feet and offered Anur a hand, saying, “Come on, I have something for you.”

They both bid a brief farewell to the now distracted duo and Anur followed him all the way back to his own quarters, Kir sharing with him again. It was just easier for all concerned and more secure for his own peace of mind.

He pulled out his packs and Anur waited until the door had shut before fairly exploding in curiosity, hovering over his shoulder and near bouncing in place as he watched Kir pull things out of his bags. “Oh shove off,” Kir chided, shoving him back slightly, “I can’t think with you hovering like that.”

“What is it – is that a Sunsguard uniform?” Anur asked, Kir shoving the bundle of clothes into his arms and herding him into the bathroom, Anur getting the point and reemerging in his new uniform.

“So why the uniform?” Anur asked, Kir pacing around him to check the fit. He had managed surprisingly well – the boots he had actually checked sizing on but the rest was all estimated.

“Oh, an idea I had after you snuck in last fall,” Kir replied absently, straightening a few creases and folds before stepping back to survey his work, “Thought you could use an actual cover if you came and did that again. Took some time to arrange everything – papers to file, uniforms to acquire, hackamores to make – you can get a plain saddle for the witch-horse, can’t you?”

“Easily enough,” Anur nodded, tilting his head curiously as Kir pulled out a sash of red with gold embroidery along one end – it looked like a sun motif. “What’s that for?”

Kir chuckled, tying it across his chest from left shoulder to right hip with a flat knot that left the embroidered end fluttering by his thigh. “That,” Kir said, standing back with his hands on his hips to take in the full picture, “Is the final touch. It, along with those lieutenant ranking bars, marks you as an Enforcer.”

“…I’m not familiar with that rank,” Anur admitted.

Kir shrugged and dropped into the one chair, Anur settling on the bed across from him, fiddling with his new sash. “I’m not surprised,” Kir replied, “It is a very rare designation. Only Firestarters can invest them, the First Order Firestarters can invest two, all others – there are three degrees – can only invest one a piece. Technically I can invest as many as I want, but the standard is two – that’s the historical maximum.”

“What are their duties? No offense but… the name and being chosen by Firestarters doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“It shouldn’t,” Kir agreed, nodding, “Enforcers duties basically amount to ensuring Firestarters don’t need to set everything on fire in the course of their own duties. Enforcement of will, essentially. You are considered a liaison of sorts, between myself and the Sunsguard, but I would assume Enforcers are even further outliers than Sunpriests.”

“That would make more sense,” Anur agreed, tugging at a sleeve thoughtfully, “But since I would be reporting directly to you, I would be under your protection, basically. Because who would accuse a Firestarter of choosing a Demon Rider as an Enforcer?”

Kir smirked, “Exactly.”

“For short-term scenarios, it’s perfect,” Anur grinned, examining his new uniform cheerfully, “So, when do we leave?”

_Greich, Sergeant of the Sunsguard_

Given the fact they had just dodged opening a second front on a war they were already struggling with, Greich was feeling unusually tolerant for assorted mischief and misfortune.

Unfortunately, it always seemed the moment any tolerance was built up, the world conspired to blast through it at a far higher rate than normal. Dodge a war, great. Get stuck managing panicked temporary refugees fleeing the army and potential Furies, annoying, but acceptable.

Receive word that the situation is stable in the form of bandits attacking the plentiful targets under their strained protection? Irksome, more than, but understandable.

Have to restore order after a mass panic due to their Firestarter showing up unexpectedly and turning half the attacking force to ash in an instant, then deal with covering it up so rumors wouldn’t paint their Firestarter as any more powerful than usual if other sunpriests came by to minister to the shepherds?

At that point, Greich realized he wouldn’t mind being able to set a few things on fire himself. After all of _that_ had been resolved (thank Vkandis they had two locals in their unit) he had returned to report to Captain Ulrich only to find an unconscious Sunpriest, a familiar face wearing the wrong uniform and a captain clearly ready to find a convenient target to slaughter.

He was in no way adequately compensated for this.

“Interrupting something?” he asked wearily, Captain Ulrich looking up with such relief on his face that Greich felt a brief pang of guilt that he’d considered ducking out the door and running before anyone noticed his arrival.

“Not at all, have a seat Sergeant,” the captain said, waving him to a seat. “Sergeant Greich, Enforcer Anur Bellamy, appointed by Father Kir.”

“Hmm. Horse still white?” he asked pointedly, pouring himself a cup of water.

The man nodded, a rueful expression on his face. “Indeed. Aelius is… well behaved, very intelligent.”

Greich sighed heavily, eyeing the unconscious priest, slumped over in a chair, head resting on the Witch-Enforcer’s shoulder. “Exactly what is wrong with Father Kir?” he asked.

Ulrich groaned and poured himself some _prodka_ from a stash under his desk. Greich eyed the offered bottle before accepting a splash. Thus fortified, he returned his attention to the misplaced Herald and waited for the explanation.

“His ability with flames is not something entirely without cost,” Bellamy said, half-shrugging but careful to not jar the passed out priest. “Between chasing the Rethwallen army and the subsequent Furies, he was already tired when I met with him at the Hardornen border. We received word that there was trouble further in – the, well, we have our own Firestarter of sorts, similar abilities to Kir but nowhere near the same duties. He is also rather – crude in his methods. Kir has offered some technical tips and tricks, but due to some misunderstandings, the results were rather explosive.”

“Most of a mage corps was destroyed and a wide swath of Hardornen countryside was burnt to bare dirt, but Kir was able to help bring the firestorm back under control by starting his own,” Bellamy grimaced and it was easy for Greich to see that he wasn’t particularly pleased with that method – it had probably been pretty terrifying. “Both were hit with reaction headaches – but Kir wouldn’t, or couldn’t, display any sort of weakness in front of the northern cousins so he was dragging even after a few days even if the headache was gone. So riding hard to get here, we then hit this latest… incident, and he hit his absolute threshold when he got into this building. I carried him the rest of the way.”

“Appearance of weakness, can’t have that,” Ulrich grumbled under his breath, “Not as if we _all_ aren’t exhausted we can make _allowances_ but no! Priest has to be the strong unmoving one, no human weakness, of course not!”

Greich sighed, recognizing the point Ulrich was trying to make but knowing that it was a double standard because the _Captain_ would do the same damn thing and at least he could trust that the Sunsguard protected their own. Priests had no such safety net, especially not a chaplain assigned here for political reasons and essentially left to die. They had only had one year of reasonably close cooperation between the priest and the unit – balance that against the eight or nine years he’d already served with them and it was amazing he’d even show this much trust.

Probably a good plan, considering how easily whatever trust they had built up with him could be forgotten in the face of his authority and relative power. Greich was fairly certain more than half of the men had simply forgotten what it meant for a Firestarter to be within their unit and what sort of powerhouse they were treating as a marginally more useful chaplain.

This would serve as a good wake-up call for all of them.

“Normally, I would say you should stay out of the way with the priest,” Greich said, grumbling before he continued, “However, right now we need all the hands we can get dealing with clean-up and maintenance. So congratulations Lieutenant Enforcer, you’re in the Sunsguard now.”

“Not certain that is a good idea, Sergeant,” Ulrich interrupted, “Uniform and rank aside, it’s going to be rather obvious to the men that he is most certainly not chosen from the ranks of the Sunsguard, even outside the 62nd. We’ve managed to keep everything under wraps this long I don’t want that wasted.”

“And how much longer can we keep this arrangement going without them figuring something out?” Greich retorted, “It’s been going on long enough that everyone has suspicions and I’ve heard the mutters – we need to seal them all by the same stamp of conspiracy and fast, before someone gets cold feet and reports this arrangement and we all get slaughtered.”

“So long as they remain rumors there is no need to worry,” Ulrich insisted.

“So long as they remain rumors the men will see no reason to avoid discussing them relatively openly,” the makeshift Enforcer said coolly, arms crossing over his chest as he stared Ulrich down. “And if there are any newcomers who are not so… tolerantly inclined, they will report wrong thinking at the least, outright heresy and treason at the worst. If you are _lucky_ , they will report to the Firestarter chaplain in the hopes he will cleanse his flock. At least then there is a chance to stop it before it goes further.”

Greich nodded, continuing, “Reports were sent out from the 54th regarding the army, how else would Furies have started arriving in time to intercept? We’re fortunate in the fact that the 62nd has always been something of a dumping ground and when we started this mess we had enough time to ease our roster into something resembling perfection for this purpose. The men know better than to discuss rumors outside of the unit, but within? If replacements are the problem? Then without a confirmed conspiracy to condemn them all equally, they will freely discuss it in the shadows and we’ll be finished soon enough. It’s a miracle that we haven’t had more problems.”

“…More problems?” Captain Ulrich asked lowly, Greich exchanging a look with the Herald and knowing by the grim expression on his face that the northerner knew damn well what Father Kir had been forced into doing to protect this scheme.

“Indeed,” Bellamy replied, not saying another word and very clearly refusing to elaborate. Greich shrugged at Ulrich’s wordless demand and sat back. Captain he may be, but the Firestarter had asked his silence and it was not a risk to the unit, so he would continue to follow that request.

Ulrich hissed out a breath between his teeth and sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, “Very well,” he conceded, “We need to seal the conspiracy. I still hold that it is unnecessary, but I understand your arguments and right now, everyone here is a long-term member of the 62nd so we won’t get a much better time. How are we going to work this?”

Greich let Bellamy make some suggestions, listening and making mental notes on the ones that would actually work. None of this would truly go into effect without the Sunpriest’s knowledge, as it was truly his neck on the line in this enterprise, but they could at least have some of the better options lined up for him to examine without subjecting him to the entire conversation. He was clearly exhausted and there was no need to waste his time on stupid ideas.

Like that last one, was the Herald even trying at this point?

No, Greich concluded, noting the way the Herald’s eyes cut over to examine Father Kir worriedly, he was stalling for time. He didn’t want them to wake Father Kir until he’d had some more rest.

He could reassure him that they wouldn’t make decisions without the priest and they certainly wouldn’t wake him for no reason, but he doubted the Herald would listen. But just watching this told Greich enough – if they got this Herald to stick around, their Sunpriest would be taken care of by someone that he not only listened to, but actually trusted.

It would be interesting to see what their Sunpriest was like when there was someone in his corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry for making you wait so long. It was very difficult to get this intermediate step written out; there were at LEAST six versions, all of which were scrapped when I decided they were too heavy-handed so instead I started all over... well, anyway, it's here at last and I hope it's at least sort-of worth the wait.
> 
> Next up I plan to have a collection of one-shots and brief stories titled Son Rising, covering Solaris' rise to power and Kir&Anur's place within it. We'll see how that goes, but I have a summer job in an internet dead zone so no promises as to a timeline - I'm trying to get all my WIPs updated before I go off-grid and this counts as the update for this series on that chart.
> 
> As always, reviews, ideas and comments are welcomed and much appreciated! :)


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